Amicum et Inimicum
by x.- Elevator's Not Worthy -.x
Summary: All that Dean had ever, really, been doing, it's looking after his pain-in-the-ass little brother Sammy. Yes, it might get hard, it might get tiresome, but it's all Dean has ever known. However, sometimes it's hard to stay true to that way of thinking, especially when it comes down to the games. *Updates will be leisurely.*
1. All About Dean

_Thank you for stopping by! I hope you enjoy my version of events that unfold in this AU. Read on:_

* * *

 _ **Amicum et Inimicum ~**_ _Friend and Foe_

 _ **Chapter One**_

 **January 24th**. He was born to John and Mary Winchester in the Industrial District of Six. Manufacturing trains, repairing cars, mechanics. Engines. Wheels and metal. Gas and mileage. Dean grew up knowing the ways around vehicles, but mainly cars. When he was four his father took him to his garage.

It was February, that awkward month between winter and spring. The snow on the streets turned to slush, but a flurry of white was still drifting past the open garage door. John set up one of those old, portable heaters to keep the both of them warm and Dean was sitting a few inches away, his heavily gloved hands touching all the cool tools that lined the wall. The metal handles of the wrenches were darkened in some spots from all the use they've seen. The screwdrivers were arrayed in size order—largest to smallest, left to right—just as the wrenches were. There were ratchets and sockets. Pliers, hammers, and mallets. Crow bar. Pry bar. Anything you would ever need to repair a car was lined up neatly on the wall or resting on shelves.

Dean had watched his father open the hood of a car. _His_ car. It was sleek and black. To Dean, it was beautiful. The lining around the windows was silver and the seats were black leather, to fit with the theme. John beckoned Dean to come over and pointed out a few things. Despite how old the car was, the engine seemed to be in pretty good condition. It wasn't rusted, only thick with grime and blackened by age and use. The man showed his son how to do simple functions; his hands working as a machine. He seemed to know what he was doing… Well, he did know. This was the district of transportation after all. Almost _everyone_ knew there way around a vehicle from an early age. And Dean was no exception.

 **Sam, 0. Dean, 4.  
** **May 2nd.** Sam was born to John and Mary Winchester. They left late at night as two and came late that next night as three—father, mother, and a bundle in her arms. Dean heard the door creak open and dropped everything, charging out of his room and around the corner. He was stopped by the sight of the two of them. His dad smiled. His mother smiled. Their eyes seemed to land on something in Mary's arms. Dean noticed it soon after. A baby.

"Dean, this is you're little brother," his mother explained softly as she crouched down and held the little thing out for the four-year-old to see. "His name's Sam."

Mary placed the baby in Dean's arms and he looked down at Sam's face for the first time. The baby squealed happily, his tiny mouth opening into a smile, his eyes wide and hazel. A tiny hand flailed out of the bundle of blankets, brushing by Dean's arm. Sam.

"Hi Sammy," whispered Dean weakly. His little brother.

 **Sam, 1. Dean, 5.  
** **December 24th.** The first christmas they could actually spend as a family. Dean lay huddled by the fire in a red wool blanket, a mug of steaming cocoa placed on the hearth. Sam waddled around, his arms held up over his head by his mother. She supported him, teaching him to walk one step at a time. It was warm. And wonderful.

The Games were something in the future. They weren't of age yet. They had no need to worry about a thing. It was the other kids of their district that had to worry. For the moment, the Winchesters were fine. Happy. _Alive_ …

Snow drifted past the frosted window pane. Dean loved so much to crawl onto the back of the worn-down couch and draw symbols in the condensation. His little fingers would first draw a line, then make another this time curving around the first, the ends connecting to the ends of the first line. Half the time, he'd add a dot, then a W, then another dot. Sometimes he followed with an E, then an A, and lastly an N. It didn't matter.

The fire was warm. His parents were here. He was safe.

 **Sam, 2. Dean, 6.  
** **November 2nd.** Then came the fire and every safety he knew shattered like glass.

Of all places, it started in Sam's room. Where mom was.

Dean just woke up to hear a roar and a crackle, and shouts of a man, and wails of a baby. _Sam!_ _Dad!_ Dean burst from his bed and down the hall at the same time as his father barrelled out of Sam's nursery, carrying a bundle. Fear and grief was all Dean saw in the man that moment. Fear and grief was all he heard in the man's voice as he gave a command,

"Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don't look back!"

The bundle was shoved into Dean's arms. The room behind his dad glowed with a fiery gold. A horrid smell met Dean and forced itself into his nose. He felt nausea control his stomach. He didn't want to smell it anymore.

" _Now_ , Dean! Go!"

Taking his baby brother, Dean ran. His small feet pounding on the stairs. His breath started to get heavier as he burst from the warm house into the freezing outdoors. His lungs became uncomfortably cold from the air he took in. His arms pulled Sam closer to his chest.

Looking up, he saw the window still glowing. Flames licked the entirety of the room, covering the walls in death. Something black moved and disappeared, consumed by flame. Dean's six-year-old mind couldn't comprehend what it was. Was it a burnt pillow? Was it a toy of sorts?

A rattling boom startled Dean and he knew he must move. He could already feel the heat coming off the second story room. The baby began to wail quietly and Dean looked down.

"It's okay, Sammy," he whispered and sped away from the house.

But it wasn't going to be okay.

The door banged open and running footsteps were heard coming for Dean. Something grabbed him and lifted him up. Dean glanced over his shoulder the best he could in the arms of someone.

Dad.

 **Sam, 3. Dean, 7.  
** John began teaching Dean the basics of hunting. Taking him early in the morning into the woods. The first day, his dad showed him how to get past the fence keeping the grid-like industrial city of Six from the wild, untamed forest. After that, he learned to fight. With or without weapons it didn't matter. Fighting and hunting. What Dean soon began to excel at.

 **Sam, 6. Dean, 10.  
** **August 5th.** Back in the garage. This time with Sammy too.

The car was outside, parked off to the side of the broken paved road. Dean, being ten, was helping dad. Only the man's legs were visible. The rest of his body was underneath the raised automobile. Hammering echoed off the bottom. Occasionally there'd be a few words, orders for Sam or Dean to hand him something. It was mostly just Sam giving over the tools Dad needed. Dean's hands tinkered with metal and wires and gears and whatnot, making nothing in particular.

 **Sam, 7. Dean, 11.  
** **September 9th.** Each year the Games drew closer, and each year Dean's sense of uneasiness grew more. Dad seemed to get more distant as Dean turned a year older. He talked less, his eyes became sad, and Dean found him more and more often sitting on the front porch, alone. Sometimes Dean wished he could pull open the door to his head and take a look inside, hoping his trained mechanic hands could reach in their and fix whatever was not functioning right.

If only…

 **Sam, 8. Dean, 12.  
** **May 1st.** Dean's first reaping.

Dread slowed down his footsteps. Worry took hold of his mind. Fear enveloped him and controlled him.

He wasn't reaped.

 **Sam, 9. Dean, 12.  
** **May 2nd.** Sam's birthday! Dean brought Sam out to the woods with him that morning, teaching him everything their father taught Dean. Sam was a quick learner, picking up moves and techniques in one or two examples. Soon, they were play-fighting. But Dean always won.

Who cares? The time spent together was all that mattered.

 **REAPING DAY.  
** **Sam, 13. Dean, 17.**

 **May 1st.** All his life he'd been watching out for Sammy. That's his job, looking after his little brother, keeping him out of harms way. He'd do anything for him. But what was he supposed to do now? What could he do to stop his baby brother from taking another step.

Dean caught a glimpse of Sam's mop of brown hair, surprisingly steady for the young boy to be called up. A surge of hate and a wave of love crashed down on him. They could take away anyone and anything, but no one takes away his family. 'Cause when they do, they will have to pay. Dean curled his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into his palms. Harder and harder.

Without realising it, he burst from the group of boys relieved they weren't chosen this year. He stood in the center aisle, watching in disbelief as his nightmare unfolded. He ran forward, his only goal was to get to Sammy. His mind ruled by only panic.

"SAM!" he screamed. "SAAM!"

Sam froze, looking over his shoulder at the commotion. Dean tried to race to him, keep him from the stage, but two peacekeepers intercepted his charge, grabbing his arms. He struggled forward, but their grip was strong. Too strong. His eyes widened as Sam turned away, shuffling to the steps. His foot lifted and Dean barrelled forward. The men holding him just barely contained him. They pulled Dean slowly backwards as the Winchester's mind raced.

"No, no, no, no, no!" he muttered, bringing his foot down on one of the peacekeeper's feet. No longer feeling the vise grip, Dean swung his free arm around, catching the peacekeeper in the neck. Not hard enough for a kill, but enough to stun. Dean ran forward a few yards. He could hear the men getting back up, more determined to subdue the wild teen this time. He yelled for the whole square to hear,

"I volunteer as tribute!"

He couldn't keep the panic and fear from his voice.

All he could think of was Sam.

 _At least he'll be safe_...

* * *

 **A/N:** Wow, feels so good to get this up! I've been working on his since the summer started but each attempt has been thrown out. They were either hard to continue or too much like other crossovers of this variety. Anyway, SO glad to have this out in the open and I will try my best to continue this story... (unlike the other fanfictions I left unfinished). This one I am **DETERMINED** to finish no matter what.

Anyway, don't forget to leave a review! ;) ~ Laters!


	2. Splinters

_A big thank you goes to theblackqueen1 for leaving a review last chapter._

* * *

 _ **Amicum et I**_ _ **nimicum** ~ Friend and Foe_

 _ **Chapter Two**_

 _So I bare my skin,  
_ _And I count my sins,  
_ _And I close my eyes  
_ _And I take it in…_

 _~ Bleeding Out; Imagine Dragons_

* * *

 **Sam, 9. Dean, 13.  
** **July 5th**. It was a sweltering evening. Dean was repairing the car, Sam was nearby sitting on a stray crate. Even working in the shade of the massive maple by their house and garage, the day was still hot and the brothers were feeling the toll on their bodies. Dean wiped sweat from his brow with the bottom of his t-shirt as he inspected the engine underneath the hood. A box of tools lay discarded off to one side, but Dean knew he'd be needing it soon. The downside of having a badass, old car was the immense amount of uptake he had to follow through with.

From the corner of Dean's eye, he noticed Sam turn his head, his young face peering innocently at his older brother. His twisted again, seemingly grabbing something, and then there was a popping noise, soon with a fizz of what Dean knew was the rare luxury of soda.

"Here, take it," inclined Sam, extending his arm to offer Dean the drink. Dean smirked and wiped his grease-stained hands on his pants, taking the can.

"Thanks Sammy." He winked before drinking a swig. Sweet, syrupy liquid flowed smoothly into his mouth, cooling his sore throat.

"It's Sam," the boy sighed, but it was all in jest. That's what brothers did, tease and joke in the best of times.

"Whatever, kiddo," Dean dismissed. He set the drink on the ground, placing his hands on the edge of the hood. A moment passed and the elder Winchester smiled, breathing deeply. "So Sam, want me to show you the ropes?"

The boy walked over and looked over the rim to the engine. His eye sparked with interest at the complicated parts. Dean regarded the kid. Sam was still small for his age, but Dean somehow knew

Sam would grow to be tall. All he had to do was wait a few years and his little brother would grow from being two-thirds his height to probably a few inches taller than him. Examining the car parts, Sam grinned. Dean caught that grin and couldn't help matching it himself. For no reason, Dean chuckled. It was a nice moment to share.

It felt kinda good.

 **Sam, 13. Dean, 17.  
May 1st**. **Present Day**. Dean's knees felt weak as he stood on stage. His mind was struggling to catch up with the events, still stuck in the dream-like state when Sam's name was first called. Oh god, Sam. What the hell? Nothing made sense.

"Umm, excuse me?"

The escort. Right. He was onstage. He had volunteered.

"What?" snapped Dean.

"Because you are a volunteer, could you tell us your name?"

He grumbled, "Dean Winchester," into the microphone she shoved in his face. She made some bubbly sound that was probably meant to be taken as being happy. Dean wanted to punch that grin off Becky Rosen's "perfect" face.

"So you're brothers, I take it," she prompted. "Couldn't let him take all the glory, could you now?"

"Couldn't let him die in there." It just came out of him. He had it with her.

"Anyway," the escort drew out, making it clear the little chat was over which was fine by Dean. "Time to reap our female tribute then." She flounced over to the bowls and excitedly plunged her hand into the papers, flashing a creepy stare before walking briskly to center-stage to read the card. She unfolded it, "cleared her throat" with a little ahem, and read.

"Joanna Beth Harvelle!"

Jo? The blonde girl Jo Dean sometimes saw as he passed town to get to the market? The sixteen-year-old with a smile on her face walking down the halls of school? The daughter of the woman who had a rough relationship with Dean's father? That Jo?

His disbelief was confirmed once a blonde stepped away from the girls and took a moment to breath before confidently marching to the stage. Dean waited for someone to volunteer but no one did. The silence unnerved Dean, and clearly it made Becky just as uncomfortable, for she made unnecessary mutterings into the mic prompting Jo onto stage. She held out her hand for the new tribute, but Jo refused to take it getting up there perfectly well on her own. Becky pulled her hand away and stood back in the center. She let out a huff before concluding the whole thing.

"Everyone, I present you this year's tributes of the ninety-seventh Annual Hunger Games!"

And then they were shoved into the Justice Building behind him.

 **Sam, 8. Dean, 12.  
December 24th, once again**. Dad was gone. The sun was fading along with the light. A foot of snow lay undisturbed in the back of the house. The front was riddled with trenches made by legs. Near the road stood a large snowman, next to it a smaller one. Dean had dressed the smaller one with his scarf and jacket, only his woolen sweater keeping his torso warm. Now he was inside sipping hot chocolate and spending the rest of the time with his little bro.

Sam shivered by the fire. Even in their Dad's Victor House, cold drafts sneaked through the bad insulation. The fire helped a little, but not by much. Dean grabbed the closest blanket and unfolded it, moving forward to drape it over Sammy's shoulders. The little kid gave a smile in thanks. Dean returned it.

Checking the clock, Dean sat next to the eight-year-old on the couch. He wasn't surprised when the face read twelve thirty, strangely enough. He nudged Sam. "Merry Christmas, kiddo."

Sam locked his gaze with Dean's and grinned. "Merry Christmas to you, Dean," he insisted earning a smirk. Dean broke the silence by turning around and reaching for something.

"I got you something," he said, pulling over worn-out leather and flopping in in Sam's lap. "Found it at the market yesterday. Just the thing for my little nerd brother."

Sam playfully punched Dean's shoulder and picked up the book, flipping through the pages. He had know way of knowing what it was, seeing as the cover was faded and smudged. He didn't care as he flipped to a random page. The pages were old, wrinkled, and brown and Sam loved it, though the words seemed to be in another language. After a pause the younger boy looked down and fumbled with something in his back pocket. Dean noticed his hand clenched in a fist, a thin, black string poking out between his fingers. Sam thrust it his big brother's way, opening his hand.

"I got this for you." Dean leaned in to see what lay in Sam's palm. An amulet, metal and gold in colour, rested there. Horns curved off the sides of its face. "Take it."

"Where'd you get it?"

"I, um… I got it a couple days ago at the market."

"It looks expensive," Dean commented, raising his eyebrows. "Where did you get the money?"

Sam looked down at his lap, "I–I've been saving up for a gift since, well, May."

Dean blinked. "Just for this? You sure you want me to have it?"

The kid nodded, his eyes downcast. Dean took the amulet from Sam's fingers and held it up before putting his head through. He glanced down where the gold rested against his chest. He smiled.

"Thank you, Sam. I–I love it," he said. Sam's eyes moved towards Dean in hope. They broke into a smile.

It's hard not to smile.

 **Sam, 13. Dean, 17.  
May 1st, Present Day**. Dean's room was empty save the two chairs and a side table. District Six probably coudn't—nor did they want to—afford more decorations for the Tributes' visiting rooms. They hadn't had a victor since the failed rebellion, and the only two houses in the Victor's Village were owned by his dad and a former drunk in a wheelchair. So District Six really didn't hold much hope for their tributes. Dean stood by the window, regarding the view of the train tracks that ran by the station that was only ten yards from the Justice building. Seeing the tracks gave Dean a strange urge to get to the Capital as fast as he could. He felt that if he saw his dad and Sam, it would break him inside. He most likely wouldn't see either of them again and that thought was more than he could bare.

Something creaked. Dean's eyes shifted to the right to see the door open and a large man stood in the frame. The tribute waited for the man to move first, remaining where he stood. The door swung shut by the sound of it and the man took a few tentative steps took a deep breath, still refraining from turning to face whoever it was. Could they tell he wasn't in the mood to talk?

"Dean."

Dean turned. The voice of his father ordering him to do so.

"Dad," he said, his voice coming out low and hoarse. He stared at his father, unsure what to do. Instead he remained frozen by the window. There were so many things he wanted to tell him, but as much as he tried the words never spilled, never left his mouth. Taking a step forward, Dean looked up and immediately regretted it. "I had to," he answered to his father's unspoken question. "I had to do it."

He blinked, holding back the stream pushing against him. Cracks were appearing in the dam and Dean knew he couldn't hold it in forever. Sometime that dam will break, and god forbid it be near Dad or Sammy. For them he will have to remain strong: put aside any emotions and do anything to get home to his family.

Arms encircled him. He welcomed the protection, returning the gesture. For a moment everything seemed to be in order—no Games, no Reaping, just family—but Sam crossed his mind again and he pulled out of the embrace. The man made no move to counter it, but Dean could see the slight hurt in his eyes.

"Sam." It was all Dean said for a few moments. The silence weighed on his shoulders, feeling like the world crushing him flat. "Watch Sammy. Make sure he never puts his name in for Tesserae. Make sure he's safe. I'm okay with dying if I know he'll make it."

"Dean—," began his father.

"Dad, I going to die, and there's nothing you ca—."

"Dean."

The harsh command stopped the eldest son. He regarded the man with a mask of determination and anger, but he knew his dad knew it was all for show. If he took it off one would find nothing but despair, grief, and longing.

"You're getting out of there," Dad demanded, his voice shaking slightly with fear, and increasing in intensity with anger. "You are going to fight in that damn arena and you will win. You are making it out and you are coming back. You hear me? Just like I did, just like Mary did, you're coming back!"

With a whisper of Dad, Dean squeezed his eyes shut and forced the cracks in the dam closed. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around the man. He tried to take in everything of what would probably be their last time together. Dean wished he would never have to go, but the fates were cruel and not a few seconds later the door banged open. his father pulled back and glared at the peacekeeper there coldly.

"Time's up," the masked man stated.

Dad turned so his body was facing the door. He took a moment before turning his head and placing a hand on Dean's shoulder.

"You'll do well, son."

His dad gave a brave, but weak smile before heading out the door and leaving Dean all alone once more.

* * *

It took fifteen minutes for the next visitor to show up. And he was surprised to see her of all people.

Lisa. Lisa Braeden.

"Hi," she said weakly. It took a moment for Dean to unfreeze, but once he did he returned the greeting with a forced smile. It came out low and soft, quite unlike his usual voice.

"Hey."

It was awkward, to say the least. It was everyday the girl you dated a few years ago for only a week came to see you off. Dean bit his lip and tried to look anywhere but the girl in front of him. It was hard and after a moment his gaze focused back on her involuntarily. She nervously tucked her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

"So, um… didn't know you were coming," prompted Dean with a fake chuckle, hating the silence that had been pressing in on his ears.

"I didn't know either," she replied, her eyes downcast. Dean felt a strange urge to step closer, comfort her, wrap his arms around her to protect her, but he steeled himself against it and remained stationary. More silence followed. God, he hated the sound of nothing. He hated the emptiness he felt when nothing happened. And now that he's in the Games that emptiness will just continue to grow. He blinked and returned from his thoughts back to reality. Lisa looked closer to him than before and he felt the urge from earlier, only bigger this time. "But I wanted to stop by."

Dean had no idea how to respond to that. He had no idea how this girl worked. Sure, most of the time he could pick up chics with a smirk and a little flirting, but Lisa was different. Like Jo. They were likeable—and, god forbid, cute—but something about them made him act and treat them differently. Something about them made them… off-limits. He just wished he knew Lisa better.

He stepped forward, his hand going to her cheek., and leaned in. He wasn't sure why he did it, but it didn't matter. The world around him faded to nothing. He felt warm. Warm. Warm and calm. SHe returned it. For a fleeting moment, she returned it.

She shoped him away and took a hasty step back. Dean wore a mask of concern, but that was all: a mask.

"I didn't come here for _this_ ," she spat.

"Lisa," he said softly.

"What is it with you?" she said. "You're reaped so you think you have the right. I came to see you off, not start something again that we _both_ know can't be finished!"

She turned on her heel heading, for the door again.

"Lisa..." Dean tried again, but all she did was give a nasty look over her shoulder before giving a nasty look over her shoulder and exit, followed by an unnecessary slam of the door.

* * *

With Lisa gone, Dean was by himself. But this time Dean did not stay alone for long. The door opened and in the peacekeepers shoved a boy with scraggly brown hair and frightened eyes. Dean was alert within milliseconds, covering the distance between him and the boy with two large steps. He wrapped his arms around the boy and the kid did the same. His head reached Dean's shoulder where it rested, drops rolling off his cheeks and splashing onto the older boy's shirt.

"Why'd you do it, Dean?" mumbled Sam over and over again, his voice quavering with despair and longing. Dean pulled back to look into the innocent gaze. He couldn't let those eyes fall on the horrors of actually living the Game. He couldn't let that soul be weighed down by the guilt and sorrow that Dean knew followed the past victors. All he had to do was look at dad, or Bobby. The Games take your life even if you win. There is no escape.

"I had to Sammy," answered Dean. "I couldn't stand it. I had to."

Sam blinked up at him and Dean wished he didn't. It just made leaving him harder than ever. The kid shut his eyes, squeezing out tears that he tried to hold in, and leaned forward into Dean again. Dean tried not to lose it for Sam's sake but it was like that damn dam again. Cracks formed. They got larger and larger until there were more fissures than dam, and the river leaked out. Dean closed his eyes, but the water kept coming, pouring out in streams.

"I'm sorry Sammy," he whispered. He thought he heard a faint, halfhearted correction of 'It's Sam,' and had to smile despite everything going on. Minutes past before Dean pulled out, wiped his eyes quickly with the back of his hand, and took something from around his neck. Clutching it in his hand, he placed it in Sam's hand. "Take care of this, will you?"

Sam glanced down at the pendant in his palm. He opened his mouth to protest, "but you can bring a token. You should—!" He thrust his hand out to give it back,

"Sam, hold onto it," Dean said. He managed a faint smirk, "Don't want to get lost."

A fist connected with Dean's arm, harder than a hit by a little kid. The young Winchester slipped the cord around his neck and plunged his hand into his back pocket, producing something silver that gleamed in the sunlight slanting in through the window. He held his palm out and a ring rested in his palm.

"It was mom's." That answered the unasked question. Then came the order. "Take it, Dean."

Dean picked it up and rolled it between his fingers, looking at it before breaking into a small grin. "Thanks." He twisted it onto his finger. He held it there for a moment, grinning at his brother.

The door banged open suddenly and the peacekeeper stated firmly, "Time's up!"

Dean glared at him, the grin melting off his face like snow in spring. "Asshat," he muttered darkly.

"Time to go," the servant of the Capital stated blandly, ignoring the comment. Sending one last dirty look, Dean hugged Sam closer than before and shut his eyes as tightly as he could. His blood raced faster, his breathing came out almost-panicked. He managed to get a grip and his face contorted into an expressionless mask, one he uses so often.

"Promise me you'll come back," whispered Sam, muscles tense and ready to spring. Dean remained silent. Nothing he could do would make the statement any easier to bear. He couldn't give his brother empty words and phrases. It wouldn't be fair. "Dean, tell me you'll come home. Say you'll do whatever to come back."

"I can't."

"Promise me!"

He took a breath,preparing for the hollow sound of those words: "I promise, Sammy. I'll come back. Don't worry. I'll be right back."

"Time is up," he repeated, closer this time. Dean jerked his head up, his expression morphing into a glare at the peacekeeper who moved towards them. Sam set his jaw and took a shallow breath before moving to the door on his own. The peacekeeper nodded and moved back out of the room, allowing the younger Winchester to wander out. He reached the door and got halfway through before glancing back over his shoulder.

Last chance to say it, something murmured in Dean's mind, but only silent ensured. The weight of nothing fell on his shoulders and he struggled to keep himself up.

"Later, Sammy," he said, trying to keep his tone bright; carefree. A knowing smirk crossed his face. If this were truly the last time they met, Dean didn't want his baby brother to see him distraught. "I'll come home."

Sammy only nodded, a hopeless look on his face, but returned the smile as if they were sharing a sad joke. Then he turned and went right back through the door. Dean shut his eyes at the snap of the door. A rough-textured door. A coarse, uneven door. It made him wonder… For a District that designed flashy trains and sleek cars, for a place so advanced in machinery and metal, the wood is still rough.

One can still get splinters.


	3. Drink

_A massive thank you goes to Carsyn and CompanionOfTen for leaving a review last chapter._

* * *

 _ **Amicum et Inimicum** ~ Friend or Foe **  
**_ _ **Chapter Three**_

* * *

Dean waited with his back towards the door. No one else came for the last few minutes, which annoyed him. They couldn't just leave Sam with him until the time was up, could they? He felt like punching them in the face most of the time, except they usually wore helmets to prevent that sort of thing from happening.

He heard footsteps on the other side of the door and quickly turned from his spot facing out the window. The shuffling stopped right outside and it was forced open. Immediately one man moved inside and grabbed Dean's arm, dragging him out of the room and out the back where the mentor sat looking away from them. The peacekeeper released Dean but stood ready, expecting him to bolt. Dean didn't. Instead he took a few steps towards the mentor. As Dean hoped, his mentor was not his dad. John better be taking care of Sam instead of coming with Dean to the Capital.

The man wheeled his chair over to meet Dean. The grim face of Bobby Singer regarded the Winchester. His Game, the sixty-fourth, had been especially hard. From the little Dean heard, Bobby and his District partner were the last ones in the arena and he was forced to kill the girl when she was driven mad by and turned on Bobby. Being quicker, he had come out triumphant with only his legs rendered useless, but Dean could see he never forgave himself. Neither did the rest of the District, which left him alone in the Victors' Village. Well, alone with the Winchesters. Which pretty much was alone…

"Hey, Bobby," greeted Dean, managing to keep his tone light.

The man nodded. He must have known the Winchester's tone was forced, but did not comment. "Dean," he returned.

At the sound of a door snapping shut, Jo was shoved outside and towards the two. She regained her balance quickly and closed the distance between her and their mentor.

"Y'ready?" Bobby asked.

"As we'll ever be," huffed Dean in response.

* * *

The train was already at the station when the team got there. It stood there silently as it glistened the sun. Being from the transportation district, Dean was familiar enough with it. He stepped in, expecting... well, unsure what to expect, but definitely not a dinner table, couches, and so much food (at least, that's what Dean concluded it was). Half the things on the table were so exotic he didn't recognise the things he did know.

The escort, Becky Rosen, flounced over to the head of the table and sat herself down, immediately picking up something pink and orange and plopping it rather delicately on her plate. Dean stayed by the doorway, taking it all in, while Bobby wheeled his way to the other side of the table. He glanced up.

"What are you waiting for?" he demanded. "Panem to fall? Get in here and sit."

Following their mentors orders, Jo was the first to come fully in, sitting across from Bobby and around the corner from Rosen. Dean took the seat as far away from Becky as possible, which was at the other end of the table. He watched Bobby help himself to bread and meat. After all these years being mentor he still goes for the plain food. Dean reached over and snatched something that looked appetizing: meat, lettuce, and tomato in between two slices of bread. It was larger than anything Dean had eaten before and had little hope for it. Taking a bite, he was instantly surprised.

It was the best damn thing he'd had in a long time.

"What is this?" he wondered, marvelling at the taste. Bobby chuckled.

"Called a 'burger,'" answered the mentor. "Not all the food is bad."

"Awesome. Love burgers," Dean mumbled, taking another bite of the sandwich. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Jo try to hide a laugh. Dean sent a playful glare her way. She merely shrugged and went back to her plate. If Bobby noticed anything, he did not say. Instead, he continued picking at his plain food. Becky Rosen was staring at a small screen, glowing in the shadows of the tablecloth.

Silence.

It was something he hated. It weighed on them heavily and, to battle it, he turned to Jo to strike up conversation, but she was engrossed in her thoughts, vacantly observing a bottle of something red that shouldn't have captured her attention so. Anything Dean could usually say to girls died in his throat and he quickly shut his mouth. While she was better looking than any other girl he'd hit on, he...

 _Stop it!_ he automatically scolded himself, and he dropped his thoughts.

He looked down; the only direction where he couldn't see someone. Just about now the reality of his situation was settling in his stomach and a wave of nausea rolled over him. He placed his half-eaten burger on the plate and pushed it away. He was missing Sammy more than ever. In the back of his mind, he felt two concerned gazes on him, but he didn't care—at least not then, not on the surface. Way down there, he cared too much. He cared too much for Sammy—that's why he volunteered. He cared too much for his dad—that's why he forced him not to mentor this year. He just wanted a carefree life, where everyone he cared about was safe and fed, and where they could live their lives in peace too! Was that too much to ask?!

The plates and bottles rattled as they shivered next to each other, shaking Dean from his thoughts. His fist rested on the pristine white tablecloth, clenched so tight his knuckles were white with strain. Bobby frowned at him.

"Are ya tryin' to break the table?" he demanded. Dean bit his lip, anger seething inside him. But was it really anger, or was it the empty void that had started growing inside him ever since he got on this goddamn train? He stood abruptly.

"I'm going to... wherever," he mumbled and stormed off down a hall at rndom, not caring where it lead.

* * *

Dean was found by Jo a couple hours later sitting in the last car of the train. His eyes were trained on the rapidly receding greenery and the tracks getting thinner and thinner until they met at one point on the horizon. He had his feet on the bench and was hugging them to his chest when Jo arrived. He barely acknowledged her presence at her entrance—other than hastily dropping his feet to the ground—and continued facing the trees. Only until she spoke did he respond to her being there.

"The weather looks like there's going to be a storm," she observed. There was nothing to it but that. Dean realised she was trying to get his mind off things, and probably help her in the process.

"Just how I feel," Dean replied, mostly to himself, but the girl nodded in understanding. They were silent for a while before Jo spoke up, answering an unasked question that had been on his mind for a few years now.

"I bet you're wondering why I started ignoring you at nine years old," she began, taking a shaky breath.

"I know you're trying to help, but just stop it there," ordered the Winchester. Jo bit her lip, but hesitantly lowered herself to a chair a few feet away from him.

"My mom didn't want... she didn't want your family to influence me."

He glanced back, his eyes narrowed a little, before turning away."Influence?"

"How my dad died," she replied. They both knew how it happened. His and Jo's father went out hunting for food. The peacekeepers heard a gun fire and went to investigate. Will Harvelle had sacrificed himself to let John escape and ever since, Dean's father had been beating himself up over it. And Ellen, well, Dean could only assume she hated all the Winchesters' very existence.

"And influence?" he scoffed. "How does that fit it?" Jo gave him a look like it was obvious, one Dean only caught by his second glance back. It probably was obvious though, Dean just sucked at this kind of thing.

"She didn't want me to follow in my dad's footsteps," answered Jo. The Winchester blinked. "Or yours." There was a pause. "Really, Dean, you were doing the same thing he did!" she explained, exhasperated.

Instead of the explanation making him feel better, he felt worse—like it was his fault her father was dead and his fault she was raised to avoid him and his family. In truth, it was his dad's fault, but he couldn't think like that. His dad would not be proud of a son who blame him. He would be proud of a son who obeys, of one who wins the Game. But how would he win the Game if Jo is a player?

"So, you were raised to hate me," summarised Dean. "Thanks." He stood and moved to the drink table, grabbing a glass.

"No. All she wanted was to stop me from doing what my dad did. She never said anything about hating you."

 _That's what it felt like_ , Dean thought, but kept his mouth shut. He took up a random bottle, something that looked like a drink his dad always drank, and tipped its contents into his glass. John had, once or twice, allowed Dean to try it. He had allowed Dean to do many things he probably shouldn't have been doing. He lifted the glass to his lips when Jo spoke again.

"Don't drink that!" she scolded, sounding very much like her mother. "You can't be getting drunk just before the games."

"And why not?" he challenged. "It's hopeless anyway." He lifted the glass again, but a sudden clap forced him to a stop. The glass was knocked from his hand and a red, stinging hand print was just starting to form. "Jesus, Jo!"

She only sneered. "You have a brother to get back to."

Dean scowled in response. "Everyone has someone. What about your mom?"

Jo glared, opening her mouth to reply, but shut it soon after. She shook her head, gave one last dirty look, and disappear back down the hallway.

"Jo! Hold on a mo—!" he tried to call out to her, moving forward to stop her. But she was gone, leaving Dean at the end of the hallway with nothing but the gentle drip of fluid off the bar and the steady sound of the train hissing along. Why, in with all that filling noise, did it sound so silent?

* * *

 _HELLO, dear readers! I apologise for the delay. Train ride chapters are always the hardest, second only to parade ones, as I never know what to include. I hope it was as good as the previous chapters before it._

 _Tell me what you thinked about the encounter with Jo in a review, as I'm not quite one-hundred-percent with it just yet._

 _Thank you for reading, enjoying, and... Adios!_


	4. Give In

_A huge thank you goes to Bianca Valdez for reviewing last chapter._

* * *

 _ **Amicum et Inimicum ~** Friend or Foe **  
** **Chapter Four**_

That night was restless and long. Dean lay in his bed, staring at the dark grey ceiling. He was long passed trying to sleep and accepted the fact that his brain was too wired to settle down. At three in the morning, his body was eventually exhausted from the previous days' events and started to shut down for the night. His mind finally drifted away as Dean caught his four hours of rest.

 **Sam, 10. Dean, 14.  
** **November 3rd.** The first of kids trickled out in pairs. Dean scanned each face, looking for his brother. Sam had insisted on continuing school while Dean had stopped at age eleven to help his dad. While the eldest Winchester wanted Sam to drop out, taking up a job at their garage, the younger refused and this time was more determined to keep learning. While Dean was glad to know his younger brother was content, he was slightly disappointed. Most of the time he worked alone in the garage, fixing things with only his thoughts to keep his company. If Sam were with him, he himself would feel better.

But no. Sam came first. And if his baby brother wanted to go to school, Dean could not say no to that.

Most kids were gone by now, and that is when Sammy showed, hefting his bag more securely on his shoulder and marching straight for Dean.

"Hey Sammy!" he greeted once the kid was a few meters away. "Why're you late this time? Couldn't find your way out of a book?"

"Ha ha," came the sarcastic reply. "Just wanted to finish something."

"You fine, upstanding student, you," teased Dean with a nudge as they began their daily route back home. Sam tried shoving back, but the elder brother remained steady with a smirk. He ruffled the kid's hair which made the boy swat at his arm. The hit stung slightly, reminding Dean that his brother was no longer the innocent child he once was, but he easily shrugged off the pain. They walked in silence for a while, just content with the other brother's presence, when Sam broke it.

"What did you do?" he asked. Dean looked his way. "What did you do when I was at school?"

The fourteen-year-old shrugged.

"Helped Dad, worked in the garage, the usual. Why?"

"Don't you ever get tired of it?"

A pause. "Tired of what?"

"Of the same thing over and over again," Sam persisted. "I mean, all you do is obey dad and fix cars. Doesn't it get boring?"

"Sometimes." Dean shrugged. "But that's what hunting's for, isn't it?"

"I guess..."

The silence caught up with them again. Each returned to their thoughts as the autumn wind chilled any exposed flesh. Sam pulled his coat tighter around him.

"I could say the say for you," Dean stated suddenly. His brother glanced at him quizzically. "Doesn't school get boring?"

The youngest nodded in understanding, but replied, "Not really."

"There's my little geek brother!" said Dean with a smile, elbowing him. Sam just rolled his eyes.

For a moment, Dean forgot where he was.

For a moment, one fleeting moment, he forgot this was a memory.

 **Dean, 17.  
** **May 2nd.** Upon waking, Dean glanced around the room. It's unfamiliar walls and the cold, overcast light seeping through the lace curtains rendered him confused as to where he was, but soon realised he was on the train to the Capitol. Getting up, he walked sleepily to the window and looked out.

The train was going by too fast to make out any individual tree and Dean turned away from the sight. Taking a deep breath, he made up his mind to head out. He grasped the doorknob and opened the door, stepping out into the hall.

His burly frame collided with a small figure and he reeled back, catching a glimpse of blond and brown.

"Sorry," they said at the same time. Dean blinked at the girl for a second, but it felt longer. "Go ahead," he added. He waved her on, but she shook her head in protest. Another awkward moment.

With a brief smile, he made up his mind and tried to forge ahead again. Apparently, Jo got impatient and thought to do the same. Dean stopped just in time to avoid a second collision.

"We can't even get through a door, how are we going to win the Games?" joked Dean with a chuckled, immediately regretting it at the look on Jo's face.

"We?" she asked weakly.

He silently cursed himself. "I didn't mean— Jo—," he tried.

"There's only one who wins, Dean," she said and pushed past him rougher than usual. She marched down the hall, leaving Dean alone with the growing void inside him.

* * *

It seemed longer, but Dean made his way into the dining car a minute later, careful to avoid Jo's gaze. Bobby glanced up at his arrival, but Becky kept her head down, staring boredly at a square of light in her palm. Jo purposefully chose that moment to stab her pancakes, studying the circle of dough like it was a battle map. Her brown eyes slightly narrowed, jaw set, a strand of blond hair falling past her ear—

"We're watching the Reapings today!" Becky squealed, excited. "Right after breakfast. It'll help you decided which tributes to take out."

Dean scowled as he plopped down, but otherwise kept his thoughts inward. He reached over to grab the thing in front of him—a sort of pancake riddled with holes—and dug in.

"Sleep alrigh'?" Bobby asked the tributes.

"I guess," Jo and Dean answered at the same time. They briefly glanced at each other before quickly returning their gaze to their plates. Dean's stomach tightened and he couldn't force down another bite.

"You two okay?" the mentor tried.

"We're fine," Dean mumbled, picking at his breakfast with his fork.

"What's goin' on?"

"I said, we're fine," Dean persisted.

"Jo?" Bobby asked, turning to the female tribute.

"We're good," she stated simply. The mentor shrugged, clearly at a loss for what to do, and returned to his food. Five minutes continued on, no of them interested in making conversation. The urge to say something was growing larger for Dean, and he wasn't the only one struggling to keep the quiet. Rosen looked just as uncomfortable. He supposed she was like the stereotypical Capitolite, never shutting up and totally obsessed with the Games.

Suddenly, music cut through the tension like a knife sliding across the surface of bread, spreading butter over the coarse, gritty texture. Becky perked up, a smile visible on her face.

"Reapings are coming on!"

She flounced her way to the couch and plopped rather abruptly down. Bobby wheeled his way to watch, a gloomy expression worn on his face (though Dean wasn't quite sure if it was because of the Games or if it was his normal expression). Curious, Dean got up and briskly walked to the couch, remaining upright and behind the couch, as to be as far from Rosen as possible.

Jo sat in the middle with a huff and crossed her arms. Dean could see the unease and fear in her eyes despite the tough front and he had to resist the temptation urging him to put an arm around her.

The gesture would not be welcome.

"-year we have an… interesting bunch," a commentor was saying, cutting off Dean's thoughts.

"Let's go take a look," the second added and the scene shifted.

It was a square, not unlike the one that held the reaping of District Six, but obviously cleaner, repaired, and overall better kept in shape. Even flowers dared bloom in neat little boxes around the place, and young saplings with lime-coloured leaves arched over benches. One could tell, this place was rich.

The male was the first one picked. Naturally, however, another volunteered in his place. He sauntered onto stage looking as if he owned the place; and when he was asked his name by the reaper, he answered with as much confidence as his accent could muster.

"He sure knows how to win a crowd," a commentator put in and that was that.

Next was the female, and this time she did not volunteer. Her stride was just as confident, yet there was something Dean couldn't place about her. Almost as if she was waiting for a miracle to happen; another to take her place. That was odd for a tribute from One to have...

Next came District Two. Masonry. A young boy was called to the stage, but a mop of tousled brown hair immediately took his place, standing beside a girl with long, auburn hair and a wild gleam in her eyes. They joined hands, holding them high in the air with obvious pride.

"This will no doubt be interesting," the commentator on the right acknowledged. "Siblings can be quite unpredictable in these games."

The other nodded in agreement and the show continued.

Districts Three had nothing interesting. The usual scrawny, nerdy kind that died in the bloodbath. Four hailed similar enough tributes, despite it's usual presentation of careers. The male particularly had a thin, frail frame paired strangely with the bloodlust in his eyes. His glances itself gave Dean an empty, hollow feeling.

Then came and went the tributes from Five.

And then came District Six.

"Samuel Winchester."

After a moment, Sam shuffled out of the mob of boys. His hands were pressed against his thighs to prevent them from shaking and his head was bowed so no one could see his expression.

It was then that Dean watched himself charge into view. As before, the peacekeeper caught him. There was the struggle, then the violence, and the eventual triumph.

"I volunteer!"

It was all Dean could do to keep his eyes peeled; keep his gaze on the screen. It was enough to live through it once, and now again? A scowl passed his features as Jo's uneventful portion concluded their reaping.

"Heartbreaking," they said. "Tearing the brothers apart? Simply heartbreaking."

"And I freaking lived it!" spat Dean with disgust. His frown deepened

With a final glare, Dean turned and stormed back down the hall, feeling the others' nervous glances sent his way.

He missed Seven's reaping.

By the time he reached the back of the train, the television there was already playing the reaping after that. Eight's all the way to Eleven's reapings were barely captivating and by the time Twelve's recap was finished with some Campbell, Dean had a glass in his hand and half the golden liquid inside gone.

* * *

 _Alright, I know the gap between the last one and this one was long, but things have started to get quite busy on my end of things. I will update as soon as I can, and thanks for sticking around!_

 _And that's a wrap — stay tuned for a parade._


	5. Celebration

_A huge 'Thank you' to FlyingPiggies123, Bianca Valdez, and WindChimePhoenix for reviewing and especially to all you loyal readers._ _Without anything further to say, here is the fifth chapter:_

* * *

 _ **Amicum et Inimicum ~** Friend or Foe  
 **Chapter Fives**_

 _But if you close your eyes,  
_ _Does it almost feel like  
_ _Nothing changed at all?_

 _~ Pompeii; Bastille_

* * *

 **Sam, 5. Dean, 9.**  
 **March 16th.** There was still snow on the ground when Dean left the comfort of their house, but deep in the woods there was little to be found, thanks to the many animals who were constantly on the go. Dean was able to identify squirrel and bird, as well as two deer and one fox. His boots squelched in the thick mud and a couple times his dad had to stop to pull him out, his heel having sunk over an inch into the muck. His father never got stuck in the mud, Dean noticed every time he was set on his feet again. John's foot would sink in the mud and he'd retract it with the familiar squelching sound, but he never got stuck like Dean did.

Dean came to like the squelching sound, however, which was one of the reasons he'd go out of his way to step in the muck. The sound triggered memories of when his dad flipped the cap off a bottle of beer—or when Sam tried to pluck off the top of a soda can as easily as Dean, but only managing to dent the top. And the sound from the mud was just another simple thing that made him content. Another thing he would miss, now.

His dad's silent feet stopped suddenly but soundlessly in the leaves that fell last autumn. He put out his hand, motioning for Dean to stop. Like a good hunter and son, he did, clutching his very own knife in a vise grip.

"Loosen up a bit," his dad commanded. "You're no good when you are that tense."

Dean glanced up at his father's face and loosened his grip on the handle. He didn't realise it then, but he noticed his dad could have listened to his own advice. His jaw was set and he was white knuckling his weapon.

But Dean's gaze surpassed this. He once was able to put aside anything and regard his father above others. Part of him still did…

* * *

 **Present Day.** For the second time in his life, Sam woke up alone. Usually, he would roll over and see the comforting presence of Dean in the bed opposite, still dreaming. Some of the time, Sam didn't even need to glance over. He would just strain his ears, listening to the even rising and falling of breath, like the quiet hiss of a train heard in the distance. There would be some times when both were awake – without the other realising it – and would lie there, completely undeterred by reality, and they'd just… listen.

Now, however, the silence only made the memories louder. Dean's yells, the escorts bubbling, screams from the past games, distorted by the television…

* * *

A frown was clearly etched into Dean's face as he surveyed the costume.

"This?" was all that came from his mouth in a gruff, condescending, 'I-won't-take-this-crap' tone. "You want me to wear this…this crap?"

The stylist gave him the Look; the look Dean earned countless times for his stubborn, anti-authority ways, the exasaperated look that conveyed the unspoken words of Really? Just do as I say and aggravated Dean's pride even more.

"Sometime soon you have to choose between sponsors or certain death," she shot back, her voice carefully controlled and controlling. "I've had to work with many tributes, and you know what happened? Most of them died the first few days–" ("basically escorting them to their death?" Dean grumbled at that.) "–And why? No sponsors. S—."

"Alright, alright. I get it."

Tessa stopped, his lips pursed in disappointment intermingled with a trace of shock. Clearly, she wasn't accustomed to being cut off like that. A long expanse of silence followed after that, falling on them like a sheet of rain in a storm. The only thing they heard was the steady hum of machinery just outside the walls.

"Are you always this irritating?"

"Usually more," Dean replied with a cocky grin.

"Just put the damn costume on."

Dean made sure his sigh was audible as he moved towards the outfit hanging innocently from the rack. He picked it up, eyes narrowed in disgust, and faced the stylist.

"You have five minutes. Starting now," she

And with that, Tessa left, leaving no space for a snarky reply on Dean's part.

* * *

The air was tense. Dean was tense. The blond just arriving was tense.

He was white-knuckling the chariot's edge, but not because of the mass of people just outside. He couldn't care less about them. It was Sammy. Everything was always Sammy. And the thought of him having to watch this made Dean tight and closed-off; once again hiding behind those shields he threw up.

"You okay?"

Higher-pitched, female. Soft. Kind. Jo…

"Yeah, fine," Dean returned instantly, voice gruff and low. A moment later, he turned to look over his shoulder, his gaze falling on a petite girl with blond curls and a slight smile that managed to chase away Dean's hard feelings and tension. "Are you?"

Jo didn't seem convinced by his snappish reply, but she didn't press. She answered plainly, "Okay."

Dean nodded. It seemed truthful enough.

"You ready?"

She shook her head, wildeyed.

Apparently she was more freaked out than she let on. Dean could respect that.

They then lapsed into silence, each absorbed by their own thoughts. None felt like speaking at the moment and really, what could they possible talk about that wasn't in front of them or evoked painful memories? It was the one time he was not tempted to break it, with her presence just there…

His gaze was caught by a harsh gleam of silver and sheer brightness of spotless white. Four chariots in front stood a soft grey chariot, the edge decorated in white feathers and pulled by two of the purest horses Dean had ever seen – so bright they could have easily blinded the unwary. District Two's tributes proudly inside, each adorned in a white gown and enormous wings of interlocking, silver feathers. As if they had a mind of their own, the wings flapped, a sound like a hundred coins scraping against steel every time they did so.

Compared to Twelve's recycled "naked coal dust" costume (as Dean dubbed it), that winged-warrior outfit was definitely a million leagues ahead.

It was harsh, it was bright, flashy… it was beautiful.

Like his dad's car back home…

Dean hadn't realised he was staring when he abruptly noticed the hush that had fallen upon the tributes and the crowd. He could just feel the anticipation that filled the room and the stands outside. This was it. This was the determining factor in deciding who would be worth the sponsors time. It was make it or break it, and the stress was evident.

The first chariot glided forward. In it stood a king and queen each adorning a blood red cape, lined with white, and a vercy large crown, silver and encrusted with diamond. The horses trotted forward, dark grey fur rippling with strong muscles underneath. Each flash of a camera caused the jewels to shine and sparkle, and the grey fur to gleam.

Next advanced the "winged-warriors" in their white and silver. However big of an applause District One had earned, Two received an even bigger one. The pure white and silver seemed to draw even more light and more attention to them.

Dean quickly surveyed the other chariots and something struck him. For once, he saw eye-to-eye with Tessa and her stylist partner. Every costume was different from the other, yes, but they all had something in common: light. Bright light. There were light greens from Four and golds from the farming Districts, much white and grey from Five, Seven, and Eight, and even dusted skin-colour from Twelve, but there was no darkness. Most stylists thought their ideas of making everything so bright was the best way to attract attention – and to an extent they would be right – but Six was really to only one that didn't follow that line of thinking, which meant the reverse-psychological thinking of Tessa paid off. With a line of harsh light parading across their vision, the black leather of Six's jackets and pants surely would bring the gazes upon them.

And then the line came down to them.

Six's chariot lurched forward and another two sets of steady clopping was added to the rest. The Harvelle's hand found Dean's at the sudden jerk, which made the elder dismiss the movement as merely an act to keep herself upright and his mind travelled onwards.

At first, there came a… decent amount of applause. It was nothing big. Respectful, to say the least, and easily let Dean and Jo move along as if there was nothing to it.

Cameras flashed, the lights catching the silver linings of their costumes, but it clearly wasn't as neat as the rippling effect Four managed, and nowhere near the sheer magnificence of Two.

But it was neat, in it's own simple way. It seemed to say; District Six is here, just here, and nothing else. And that alone seemed to intrigue the audience.

More and more faces turned their way as they progressed. Dean could hear a mass of mutterings as Six's horses trotted by. Intrigue, they probably uttered into the ears of their neighbours. What a strange angle for a stylist to take…

The chariot pulled up to end, pausing between Five and Seven's rides, neither as interesting as the sleek steel one holding the tributes from Six. The male to his left winked at Jo, but no recognition was given in return as the president himself stood above and before them, looming like the shadow of a bird of prey.

x

It was only after the welcome speech was over, the crowd's cheers were dying, and the horses took their cue to leave that Dean felt something shift in his palm.

A fair-skinned hand pulled itself away and moved to the front edge of the chariot, its grip tight and knuckles white with strain.

* * *

 _Long update since the last one and I dunno if I can promise things will get better. However, thank you to all you dear readers for keeping up with my sporadic posts and hope you enjoyed, as always._

 _Stay tuned, for next time there will be: the training days._


End file.
